Not the best of Fridays
With cold winds and a weak
Sun
Whose strength has been
Blown away somewhere South.
She’s in no good mood
Disliking her sneeze
Battling with a fever
That eats her up.
The poet feels like a gentle
Poodle
Doused with a bucket
Of icy water.
Yet he brings good humour
To a scene of her Armageddon
That recurs more often
During the birth of spring.
Yet the poet will still let
His flow of words bubble
From his soul
Like an awakening spring
And flood his notebook
And cool his physical wounds.
Most good things come in threes
But so do the bad ones too.
THREES.SEERHT
zoltanzelan
ZJG-POetry’19.